


A thousand ways to say "I love you"

by Bluestpaw



Series: Holmesbury Oneshots [1]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Oblivious Enola Holmes, a bit of both, gone wrong, not planned though, this is kind of silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestpaw/pseuds/Bluestpaw
Summary: Every flower has its meaning and, to the surprise of absolutely no one, most of them relate to love. It truly is a pity Enola does not seem to understand now, is it not?Five times Enola failed to noticed Tewkesbury's confession and the one time she didn't.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Holmesbury Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167005
Comments: 14
Kudos: 197





	A thousand ways to say "I love you"

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be fluffy with a bit of angst sprinkled in – a sweetened raspberry kind of flavour. Then I wrote the oneshot and the sugar was substituted by tears (it’s not bad, but I am still mildly disappointed by myself.)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

A thousand ways to say "I love you"

oOo

* * *

Red tulips. It all started with a bouquet of red tulips.

It was raining, Heavy clouds were hanging from the sky like grey, linen curtains, though it must be said it was spring indeed and just earlier today the weather had been rather splendid. The sun had shone with all of the worlds bravado and all of London had been out and about, savouring the warmth.

It had been a lovely day. A lovely day to visit Enola on Baker Street, where she had taken up residence (though she rarely ever resided there). It was a lovely day to take a stroll through Convent Garden to waste some time (as he feared he arriving too early might seem rude) and an even lovelier day to stop and admire all the flowers the world offered today.

Tewkesbury spotted the tulips fairly late into his walk, at a small vendor, just a carriage, really. A young boy was impatiently waiting for customers as his grandmother kept him in check and most everyone passed without turning a second glance, yet the tulips had caught Tewkesbury’s eye immediately, such a vibrant red were they.

It was a truly splendid day and those were truly splendid flowers and in precisely that moment, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquis of Basilwhether decided that, if he ever were to love a woman, that woman would have to be Enola Holmes.

The thought came to him as easy as a smile whenever he heard Enola ramble on about another of her many cases.

The most vibrant red indeed.

Tewkesbury neither felt fear of rejection nor did his epiphany weigh heavily on him. When he looked at those flowers that day, he could feel nothing but excitement and the intense need to break into a sprint to deliver them as prettily as they were now, not risking a single petal.

Perhaps he might just skip, regardless of how inappropriate it’d be for a man of his standing.

“Yer gonna buy somethin’?”, the boy asked. He was eyeing him cautiously, his arms crossed in front of his chest and Tewkesbury supposed he was looking right intimidating, if he had been any older. And he supposed his goofy grin must be appalling to some – yet he did not care.

“Yes, please. Those tulips?”

“Which colo’r?”

“The red ones, if you may.”

The woman behind the counter smiled knowingly and the way her gaze softly fell onto him merely elevated Twekesbury’s feeling of anticipation.

“Tulips? Wouldn’t roses be a better choice?”

They had roses in stock too – red and pink ones – though their colour dimmed compared to the beauty of what he wanted to say and perhaps it was better this way.

“Oh, she...she has always been rather fond of a challenge.”

“’ow many?”

The boy had taken out two tulips already, irritatedly tapping his feet and at any other time Tewkesbury would have cringed at how roughly the flowers were handled – but not today. Today, his grin threatened to split his face in half instead.

He ought to opt for a symbolic number – twelve, perhaps – yet he feared that twelve would barely convey today’s beauty.

“That’d be your entire stock.”

Today, truly was a splendid day.

. O .

It must have been divine providence, Twekesbury would think whilst reflecting upon today’s proceedings, that the sun had lost her place on the sky to dirty, grey clouds and that sunshine had been overshadowed by the kind of rain that found its way onto even the last bit of clothed skin.

Twekesbury found himself softly whistling nonetheless as he patiently waited in front of Baker Street 221b, oblivious to any droplets that may fall upon him.

It was Enola herself who opened the door – meaning Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home, which suited Tewkesbury just right. As charming of an elderly lady she was, she insisted upon chaperoning Enola and him whenever he visited and Sherlock was not at home.

He supposed today may be a suitable day for some privacy.

“Tewkesbury!”

Enola’s surprised call of his name snapped him from his thoughts and he would have responded likewise, if it hadn’t been for her taking in his pitiful appearance.

“You nincompoop!”, she exclaimed, irritatedly:”What are you doing out here, it's raining! You are not getting anywhere near me if you catch a cold!”

And already he was ushered inside. Enola successfully got him to take off his coat before leading him upstairs.

“We shan’t go to my room – you know how terribly cramped it is in there and even more so today, as I have yet to finish unpacking and its a right mess in there.”

The salon would do, he supposed. Anywhere, really, as long as she accepted his offering, or at least considered it.

She’d never just accept it, not without having thought over it, shedding light on every nook and angle of her current object of deduction – Her consideration would mean the world to him already.

“Really, I am surprised you have come all the way to London, Tewkesbury, Marquess of Rainywheather – yet, I am glad you came. It’d be a pity if I’d have to write you about this new case again instead of retelling..."

It was that moment Enola decided to turn around and she found herself facing a beautiful bouquet of tulips.

“Oh, the flowers!”

Of course she had noticed them already – yet getting Tewkesbury into warmer climate had been of higher priority.

“They’re beautiful – are they meant for Mrs. Hudson? She should be back by now, but perhaps the rain has kept her at Mrs. Burrer’s house for longer than expected – but I do think I might be able to find a vase somewhere in this house...”

Shyly, Tewkesbury glanced away, willing his fingers to still their shaking. They refused, perfectly keeping up with the frantic beating of his heart.

“D-Do not bother, Enola. They're meant for you.”

He glanced up at her, forcing a smile upon his lips that grew oh so much heavier when he noticed her frown.

“Me? What’s the occasion?”

He supposed it was a fair question to ask. He was springing this on her and she was sure not to expect it.

Neither had he, after all.

Perhaps he might hint at the meaning.

“Have you not yet found the message?”, he teased, coming a step closer, ready to clasp her hands the moment she’d realize just what those flower meant and...

“The message?”

Enola eyed the flowers curiously, turning them from one side to another. Her lips were moving ever so slightly as she was forming theories and delicate fingers brushed the petals in a caring way and Enola’s loving smile made his heart ache.

It was a pity it was meant for the flowers.

“Yes. Quite right. The message.”

Tewkesbury was rather unsure now, nervously stepping back. He

“I...do not.”

Once again, a frown haunted her features and hastily a glance was thrown over her shoulder to where she kept her mother’s book, Twekesbury was sure of it.

“I do suppose this flower code is rather enticing...” And already Enola’s eyes lit up again, brighter than the sun had today and he noticed a rather intriguing sparkle within them and - “Oh, but whilst we’re on the topic of tulips, did you ever hear of the “Tulip Mania”? It is a fascinating titbit and...”

Well. He had rather sprung this upon her, hadn’t he? Mayhaps-Mayhaps he should have gone differently about it?

“Oh, but I am rambling, am I not? I need to tell you all about the case I’ve been on and you – you must tell me how your mother is. I heard she fell ill some time ago, has she recovered all right?”

Tewkesbury watched Enola put the tulips into a vase that most likely belonged to Mrs. Hudson, before putting them square on the coffee table, right here, in the salon, for everyone to admire.

He did not have the heart to entertain any more foolish thoughts of courtship anymore aftwards.

It could have been a pleasant afternoon, too, if it hadn’t been for the constant tapping of rain against the windows.

.o.O.o.

Love, as Tewkesbury found out, wasn’t just one feeling. It was the feeling of constant warmth one always felt when around their most dearest, the sort of pleasant feeling that took one over on a summer day, when the sun was shining neither too strong nor too little. When one lay behind the house, in their garden, leisuring their day away.

“Love” was the excitement one felt when running from a member of London’s very own _family,_ when making an important discovery or simply exploring any place really, with your loved one by your side.

And yet, there was the feeling of even more perfect wholesomeness on felt through the smallest of things.

A laugh. A smile. Maybe just a question.

“Viscount Nincompoop, Marquess of Bothersome, I must ask you to accompany me to a banquet hosted by a certain “Sir Wellston” as Sherlock refuses to attend such events and god forbid should I ever ask Mycroft.”

Enola had posed that question immediately upon meeting him in the big hall, where he had come to greet her and inquire as to why she had come to Basilwhether Hall at all.

It had been much less a question and more a strangely intimidating request, yet he noticed the uncertainty in her eyes and the light blush on her cheeks – a stark contrast to her otherwise spotlessly confident demeanour. And when he remember the picture she had given that day while choosing a bouquet of flowers, he had spotted a bunch of perfectly white Gardenias.

Secret Love.

Twekesbury thought it to be fitting. And whilst on his way to accompany Enola, he picked up a branch of Arborvitae, too.

She was a dear friend of his, after all, though he was yearning for so much more.

. O .

That fated evening was a grand success – according to Enola. It had ended in a chase throughout all of London – from the looks and tales of it, Enola had needed to hail plenty a cab to keep up with the runaway husband she had been tasked to find – and, eventually, she had been able to catch the man that had abandoned his family.

Enola was happy. Ecstatic even. Yet, Tewkesbury could not share her excitement, as his Gardenias were discarded, somewhere in London, sharing quite the same sentiment as he did.

“I am so, _so_ sorry I lost them, Tewkesbury! They must have slipped my hands at some point during the evening. But they, truly, were lovely!”

.o.O.o.

His next flowers he bought were Sweet Basil. And Goldenrod. Both meant “Good wishes” and they were meant to be a gift to a newly engaged couple – Mister Jacques Francois and Miss Ada Witenfall. Whose real names were Anton Denaux and Enola Holmes, as this was a fake engagement meant to lure out a spiteful lover.

Yet, even though Tewkesbury knew all of it was a lie, he couldn’t keep himself from adding Yellow Hyacinths.

It wasn’t a real engagement. And no one would be paying attention – and if they did, he hoped it’d be Enola and she’d understand what they were meant to say.

.o.O.o.

He got her carnations eventually. Red carnations. Tewkesbury had decided today was as good as any other and Enola had invited him along on a case that would lead her all the way north, up to Scotland, anyway.

In fact, Mycroft had insisted she’d be accompanied. Either Sherlock had to come along – who was following his own lead on a particularly difficult case – or himself – which Enola was hell-bent on preventing – or any other male companion of his choosing.

Tewekesbury had, in fact, not fit that criteria, but Sherlock had been perfectly fine with him chaperoning his little sister and Enola had happily argued that Mycroft _had_ handed over her guardianship to Sherlock.

And thus, eventually, after a day or two of preparations, which, according to a worried Mrs. Hudson and his own, highly amused, mother, were far too little, he found himself in a train heading north.

“I’ve heard Scotland’s gorgeous! Have you ever been there before?”

They had the compartment all to themselves and Enola was dressed like a boy, very much like the first time they had ever met.

“ _It ought to be better were I to gain information without being questioned myself. A curious servant boy should do as disguise”, she had said:”And if word were to get out a detective’s in town, people might get more suspicious.”_

He hadn’t disagreed and anyway, it didn’t matter. What did matter were the carnations he had brought along and to which he was holding onto with shaking hands.

Indeed, it was quite fortunate they had the compartment all to themselves. He had wanted to hand them over right at the train station, yet there had been to many people and if they had been joined by anyone at their seats, why, he’d never be able to ask her on this trip yet.

“This is quite reminiscent, isn’t it?”, he started off, timidly twirling the flowers in his hand. Enola was leaning on the palm of her hand, observing the countryside run by and she looked upon hearing his words, her lips quirking into a smile.

“You're right”, she responded:”It is quite reminiscent. Shall we hope we mustn’t evacuate the train mid-journey this time round?”

She was smirking now and he was wondering whether _now_ was the right time. The way the light fell through the window, giving her hair a golden shine and then way she was fondly smiling at him, he very much thought so.

Yet his own corpus begged to differ, as he had lost all and any control over it.

“I remember how offended you got when I pushed you from the train...”

Her words were enough to loosen him from his stupor and he exclaimed, quite amused:”Why, of course! You _pushed_ me from a _moving train_! How could I not?”

Amusement lightening his voice and he leaned forward ever so slightly, his clothes rustling and the wooden seat creaking.

It was the right moment. He’d tell her and…

“I remember you found us dinner that night”, Enola added, her mouth carving into a smirk and he dared not to interrupt her:”Really, it was the only reason I kept you around. You and your constant squabbling...”

She trailed off and Tewkesbury thought fervently of a way to turn the topic back to where it had started.

His chance could not have passed him already, it had barely been a second, it…

“I must say, dinner hadn’t been all bad, with only made from flowers - Talking of which, what is it with the flowers?”

Enola cocked an eyebrow and nodded at the carnations he was holding too tightly.

“Well, you see…”

Tewkesbury fell silent, clutching the carnations. What...What was he to say, how was he to say, what...

“Are you that afraid of the Scottish cuisine?”, Enola asked, turning her gaze away once more. Without a second’s respite he missed it already.

“I am sure, most of what one hears are simple exaggerations, fables, overstated until until made unrecognizable”, she then added and Tewkesbury mouth fell dry under the spell that were her eyes and barely managed to stutter “Huh?”.

Her smile returned and he felt himself stunned.

“The Scottish cuisine? As you have brought carnations? Are they not a natural remedy against stomach trouble?”

She cocked an eyebrow and Tewkesbury fell back into his seat, the wood creaking once more.

“Well, yes. Of course, but – I – those aren’t any – They were meant as a gift for you!”, he pressed, stretching his arms in front of him in a display much less sanguinely than he had hoped for.

His chance had passed him by, had it not?

Her smile turning soft, she took the flowers, gracing those flowers with such a tender gaze it made Tewkesbury heart melt and let the chance pass by willingly.

“Oh, do not fret. Tewky, I’m just taking a jab at you – those flowers are quite beautiful! But regardless, if I am not mistaken, I have yet to brief you on this case. It must have slipped my mind those past few days...”

As it turned out, he did not get an upset stomach, but a fever and Enola used the very same carnations he had gifted her with to treat his sickness.

.o.O.o.

Yellow Tulips – Sunshine in your smile. Borage – Bluntness. Clematis – Mental beauty. Baby’s breath – eternal love

Those flowers were beautiful and Tewkesbury had spent hours on discussing which he’d choose for this specific bouquet – and now, he finally held it in his hands.

He had knocked.

Mrs. Hudson opened.

“Oh, dear, my sincerest apologies – Enola is out, on some case she learned about just today. Had to catch a train to Norwich she said – though she left a letter? And, oh, those are pretty flowers! Were they meant for her?”

Tewkesbury once proud smile vanished in an instant.

“She-She is away?”

“Yes, my dear. Though she really does apologize. She told me how much you wanted to talk to her today and...oh.”

Mrs. Hudson spotted the flowers and understanding formed in her eyes.

“Oh-I-I understand. Perhaps I can forward a message?”

Tewkesbury glanced at the flowers. Then his gaze dropped.

“No-No, perhaps I should simply come back another time...”

.o.O.o.

Time passed and Tewkesbury was sending Enola flowers no more.

Until a late July afternoon, that was.

They hadn’t seen each other in three moths and Tewkesbury found himself missing Enola terribly, begging the days to pass faster. It was to his utter disappointment that when Enola returned back to London from a case in Hastings, it was on the day he was set to leave on business bringing him to France.

He sent her Blue Salvia as a token of their friendship – they meant “”I think of you”, however, he highly expected her to miss his message once again.

She didn’t. In fact, seven days later he received a letter, detailing:  
  


> _Dear Viscount Tewkesbury, Marques of_ _Besilflower._
> 
> _Ta ever so much for t_ _he flowers –_ _they are_ _gorgeous_ _and_ _currently_ _sitting on top of my window sill, quite enjoying the sun, I suppose. But enough of that – how’s France? I have yet to visit the continent and I suppose I shall make good o_ _n_ _that once I do not have any cases to solve. Did you find any new flowers yet? I hope you did, I’d love to see your collection expanded! London’s pleasant, though it’d be more pleasant with you here._
> 
> _My most sincere wishes of good luck_
> 
> _Enola_
> 
> _PS: I have received your hidden message. I think of you, too._

Tewkesbury had read that letter more often than he could have possibly counted, until the paper was all rumbled and ripped.

And after every reading, he wondered whether he should have sent Enola Red Salvia instead.

.o.O.o.

Red roses. Red roses were perhaps the most well-known sign of love.

Sweet Pea was a sign of goodbye.

Tewkesbury never regretted mixing any two flowers more than those two. But his uncle was growing more impatient with every passing day and his mother, as good as a friend to Enola as she was, was growing wary.

Perhaps it had always meant to be just that – a secret message, hidden away in a pretty picture, never to be seen nor told.

.o.O.o.

> _Red Roses are perhaps the most well-known sign of love_.

Wistfully, Enola stroked the piece of well-worn paper that detailed the flower code, her eyes glancing at the flower Tewkesbury had left her.

A hopeful smile adorned her and just for a second, she allowed herself to dream.

It was entirely coincidentally that she had picked up the often read booklet her mother had left her. It was even more of a coincidence she had opened it on the very page she had just read.

It was less of a coincidence her sight had fallen upon those roses.

She had never considered Tewkesbury to send her messages through flowers – except that one time he had sent Salvia, but he had never responded in kind and she had been left to wonder whether she had misunderstood – though she had a hard time believing it was a mere coincidence. He had always had a knack for flowers. Surely, the hidden message, from all those months ago had been intentional.

She liked to think that way. And those flowers – they gave her more hope than she had ever wanted to feel. Love was a dangerous thing and Enola was wise enough to know to tread carefully around it.

That did, however, not stop her from stepping closer to the bouquet and touching the Sweet Pea’s petals, before rubbing them against her fingers. A wistful expression sneaked upon her features and it took on an almost dreamy quality, before she snapped out of it.

She let go of the petal and it snapped back, the flower stretching toward the later afternoon sun that fell into the building with warm

She flipped a page.

> _Sweet Pea – Goodbye_

Her smile fell.

She frowned.

And then her eyes widened in understanding.

Enola dropped her mother’s book and flew threw her room, ripping open her secretary’s drawer. There was another layer hidden underneath the first one – as was expected from any self-respecting detective – which held one secret alone:

A book filled with flower petals, collected through two years of correspondence. Red tulips. Gardenias, Arborvitae. Red Carnations. Blue Salvia. Yellow Tulips, Borage, Baby Breath, Clematis.

Enola had felt silly collecting those petals, but they had meant a great deal to her and sometimes, she caught herself imagining them to hold a deeper meaning.

Perhaps they had.

Enola’s gaze fell back onto this last bouquet and she frowned once more.

Sweet pea. Goodbye.

Perhaps she had missed her chance.

. O .

It wasn’t until a week later that Enola found herself seated on a couch in the library at Basilwhether hall. She might have enjoyed it, too – she was quite fond of books and she was especially fond of the collection here at Basilwhether Hall – had it not been for the uncomfortable silence that stretched through the room like a thick blanket of fog.

Tewkesbury was inspecting the flowers she had brought along – Red Chrysanthemum and Ivy.

Her visit had been quite a surprise and he had, well, he had been reading a letter sent to him by a certain Lady Millwater.

Enola knew Lady Millwater. She had met her plenty a time while being on one undercover mission or another. She was a cheerful young lady, quite pretty and had a great intellect – in fact, Lady Millwater had been one of the few people to ever beat Enola in a match of chess – though her most outstanding quality – or Enola presumed it’d be her most outstanding quality according to society – was her lack of a husband.

“Enola”, Tewkesbury started, before dropping whatever words had come to his mind.

Enola did not dare to look at him. She must have misunderstood the flowers, surely. Perhaps she should not have spoken up, though she had been, so, _so_ sure of it…

“Enola, these...”, he spoke up again, just to fall silence once more. Enola bit her lip, as she watched him wander away from the table he had been leaning over a few seconds ago, seating himself opposite to her, the flowers neatly laid next to him.

“These – These are Chrysanthemums. _Red_ Chrysanthemums.”

“Yes.”

Her voice was barely a whisper and she wondered whether she had been heard at all of whether, perhaps, the words had been mistaken for a gust of wind?

“They-They symbolize love. _Romantic_ love.”

“Yes. I am aware.”

She glanced upward and was met with astonishment. Letting out a chuckle, Tewkesbury let his back hit the cushions, his eyes never leaving her and Enola was unsure what to make of it.

The silence stretched on again. Enola felt disappointment rise up in her throat.

She _must_ have misunderstood and now had gotten them in quite the predicament. What was he to say to this? She had surprised him whilst reading a letter to a woman, surely to be his betrothed and had foolishly declared her love for him.

What was she to say? What was _he_ to do? Best to simply smooth over the everything, was it not?

In a, surprising, display of sudden bravery, Enola sat upright, meeting Tewkesbury’s eyes straight ahead.

They were friends. Regardless of what was set to occur today, she’d rather they’d stay that way.

“I-my sincerest apologies should I have misunderstood, I-I’d gladly...”

“No!”, Tewkesbury vehemently interrupted, before adding a more collected, yet no less frightened sounding “No!”

He shot up, his hand letting go of the flowers he had held before and stretching his other hand forward as if he were to grab her.

He didn’t.

“No-No, that’s-I-I have trouble-this is coming as quite a surprise”, he stuttered, leaning forward again. He glanced to his side. Touched the flowers.

Enola was unsure what to make of that. Then he smiled – ever so jauntily – and, dare she say, she hoped that, perhaps, she had not misunderstood at all.

However foolish and hurtful that thought may be.

“Is – Is it true?”, he whispered, his eyes never leaving the Chrysanthemum.

Perhaps it was a mere play of light, but it seemed quite as if his eyes took on a shade of dreaming.

Enola did not usually allow herself to believe such silly things – yet she felt herself hexed into a young, silly girl and maybe, young, silly girls were allowed to believe in such wishful, silly things.

“Is-Is what true?”

Her voice was shaking and she greatly disliked it, as she was meant to be better than that.

“Are – Are my feelings really reincorporated?”

Tewkesbury’s eyes were shimmering with hope now and Enola found herself once again unable to stand them.

“Y-Yes. Quite so.”

She was starring at the tips of her fingers and felt herself blush when she noticed the most gleeful expression on Tewkesbury’s features she had ever seen – like a child on Christmas that had received _just_ what it had waited for a full year.

She looked up again, her own lips forming a smile as well.

He chuckled. So did she – well, perhaps she _giggled_ , yet no one but her and Tewkesbury were there to take note, therefore no one will ever be the wiser – and then Tewkesbury picked up the flowers again, perfectly content to admire them and their message for all days to come.

Then he frowned.

“Enola.”

Worry sneaked itself into Enola’s expression.

“Y-Yes?”

“You – you do realize what those flowers are saying, don’t you?”

He looked up and was smirking now, handing her one of the flowers she had brought along.

“Why, yes. Red Chrysanthemum for love and Ivy for friendship.”

Confused, she tilted her head and Tewkeybury-he burst out laughing. Loudly and lightly and entirely carefree and Enola felt herself blush once more.

“Am-Am I mistaken? I was told their meaning by an elderly woman near Convent Garden and...”

“Enola, Ivy-Ivy represent a happy marriage!”, he exclaimed, whilst grinning wildly. Enola froze. His grin widened.

“They-they do?”, she stammered.

“Quite so, my dearest Miss Holmes.”

She turned beet-red now and if Tewkesbury had been any more ill-natured he might have taken another jab at her, but as it was, he did not, instead choosing to observe his love. Perhaps future fiancé.

 _Future fiancé_.

Enola, of course, noticed his starring and took it as incentive to stop blushing. Instead, she chose to shoot him a glare and Tewkesbury though that, mayhaps, he _could_ take a jab at her.

“Well?”

“Huh?”

“Will you marry me?”

She turned beet-red again and he fell back into the cushions, his eyes filled to the brim with mirth.

“I-I- per-perhaps I should-should consider that offer first?”, she stuttered, averting her gaze once more and Tewkesbury had not expected any other answer.

“Of course. Your consideration means everything to me.”

. O .

Half a year later, Tewkesbury brought Enola a rather elaborate bouquet – Lily-of-the-valley, sweet William, hyacinth, myrtle and ivy – and when she did not understand its meaning, he simply asked.

She responded in the only way he could have ever imagined.

“Huh. Half a year has passed, has it not? Well, I suppose it is time that I dignify you with an answer, shan’t I?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this drabble, I’d love to read your thoughts on why ^^ If you didn’t, I’d love to read your thoughts on why not, too!
> 
> I added a description of each flower’s meaning down below, in case I forgot to add one during the story itself, but do keep in mind there are different sources out there and I do not claim any sort of validity! (I used two sources; one of them claimed Anemone to signify “Unnfading Love” and the other one “Forsaken, sickness”)
> 
> Red Tulips: Love you, very much so;  
> Gardenias: Secret Love; Arborvitae: Everlasting Friendship  
> Red Carnations: Alas for my poor heart (which is a killer description, btw)  
> Blue Salvia: I think of you; Red Salvia: Forever mine  
> Yellow Tulips: Sunshine in your smile (which is a beautiful thing); Borage: Bluntness, directness; Baby Breath: Eternal Love; Clematis: Mental beauty  
> Red Roses: Love; Sweet Pea: Goodbye
> 
> Keep in mind there are different interpretations of the meaning of flowers – in the source I used, yellow roses signify “Jealousy” whilst before I’ve known them as a sign of friendship.
> 
> Also, I hope you enjoyed the drabble, please let me know if you did!
> 
> PS: I did not mean to insult the Scottish Cuisine - this was merely a ploy for me to forward the plot, I sincerely hope I did not offend anyone.


End file.
